


Bark like a God

by luxuries



Category: Blood of Zeus
Genre: Bad Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Collars, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Handcuffs, Humiliation, It Gets Worse, Lima Syndrome, Loss of Identity, M/M, Name-Calling, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Stockholm Syndrome, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27266395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxuries/pseuds/luxuries
Summary: "Whatever he offers you, decline." The phrase is tinged with that particular sweet taste of nightshade berries; angelic but lethal. A gentle hint of the syrupy death that followed. Completely unexpected from someone who was so tender with him just seconds ago. Heron would heed the warning.Or:How far will Seraphim go to convert his brother?
Relationships: Heron/Seraphim
Comments: 48
Kudos: 244





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will update as I go along.  
> I will add content warnings for each chapter. Please read them if you are susceptible to triggering content; while they may occasionally contain spoilers, I'd rather your health comes first than the story haha. (america would never! go girl give us nothing)  
> CONTENT WARNINGS FOR CHAPTER 1:   
> Being held against one's will, manipulation and violence.

"Seraphim," Heron hisses through clenched teeth as he's dragged into the throne room by his... minions.

The man in question is seated like a true king, slightly slouched in his- no, Zeus's- golden throne. His knees are spread widely, looking somehow perfectly suited for the seat that was _not_ made for him. His confidence was that of a newly made tyrant, one still intoxicated from the blood spilt in battle. Still drowsy from the sudden surge of influence.

"I did tell you to join me, brother." Seraphim tosses his hand up in an annoyed twitch, so casual it makes Heron's blood boil. People had _died_. He wasn't even sure if his friends were alive... Alexia- Kofi- Heron shakes his head. He had to focus on getting out of here- with all his limbs intact, if possible.

"What do you want?" His voice is deceivingly steady. Zeus's training wasn't in vain. Heron now knew how to _hide_ his anger, his all-encompassing rage. All it really aided in was maintaining his pride, was it really worth it? Wasn't showing the enemy your will to fight useful?

Seraphim gives him a lazy once over with a thoughtful expression, landing on his face. In this they were alike. They carried their mother's high cheekbones, that similar pout which always seemed to be formed in a frown with the two boys. The same nose, small yet strong in character. Their faces were treacherous in their softness. The only difference were their eyes. Heron had those unforgiving blue's, Seraphim had their mother's eyes- the same expressiveness, the openness they provided. He could read his mother's every emotion- that curved almond shape that he'd trace while she sung him lullabies and told him stories of the Gods. The man has no right to have them. Heron strikes forward in response, tugging against his restraints as Seraphim's men try to keep him in place.

The tyrant stands up and walks down the dais, approaching Heron's panting form. His eyes never stray.

Heron flashes his teeth, demonstrating his will to _bite_ if need be. The man merely chuckles in response, his own pointed fangs glinting in the candle light. Inhuman.

Heron's blood boils.

"What do you want?" He repeats scathingly. Seraphim is standing right in front of him now, the tip of his boots nearly touching Heron's knees. Looms above him like a _god_. The man grabs his chin with a clawed hand, twisting his head from side to side. Analyzing. Heron shakes his head loose, turning to the side to avoid the demon's touch.

"You're kind of pretty." Seraphim muses. "And small.”

Heron knows- it's hard not to acknowledge his stature when he's surrounded by literal giants. All the Gods and Goddesses towered over him, only furthering the 'bastard' image. He contributed his shortness on the lack of nutrition growing up and taking more after his mother. Besides, Seraphim doubtless had a similar height to him before he... Transformed.

Unsure of what to say, Heron stays quiet. Focuses on the hands on his shoulders that are keeping him down. Feels for weaknesses.

A backhand jerks Heron's head to the side, a startled gasp escaping him.

"Look at me while I talk to you!" And there it was; their anger. Heron hisses back, despite his inferior position. Despite the gold keeping his wrists together- despite the gold collar which digs into his skin with every breath. The blood on his teeth. Heron grasps for pieces of control.

They meet eyes again.

Seraphim is furious for reasons Heron is not quite sure of. The man is king, what is there to be unhappy about?

"If you want to survive, you _will_ respect me."

"I'd rather die." Heron spits at the ground, the taste of his own blood still clinging to his tongue. Seraphim's frown goes dangerously blank.

"No, I have something better planned." Seraphim gestures at the minions holding him and points to a door at his right, face expressionless. Small victories.

-

His neck collar is chained to a loop in the wall, directly facing the bed on the other side. A taunting image of comfort as he sits on cement. The grandness of the bedroom indicates it was once Zeus's room, despite it's lack of any personal items. _Seraphim must have had it all removed._ Heron wonders if Seraphim threw it away, hoping he didn't. The man was dead. Heron was captured and chained to a wall. And yet, and yet- Heron clung to any familiarity.

The more Seraphim destroyed, the longer the tyrant reigned, the less of what once was will remain. It scared Heron. So much had changed in such a short time. Just a month ago he didn't know he was a demigod, didn't know he had a _brother_. And now he was trapped in the man's room.

Speaking of the devil, the double doors open theatrically by armed guards standing on either side.

Heron wasn't completely useless. Counted all the guards, soldiers and Gods he passed while he was moved to the room. He'd go mad if he wasn't scheming some sort of escape.

The doors close softly with Seraphim's entrance, making Heron jolt up in apprehension. The chains clank noisily at his movement, and Heron curses himself for not being more careful.

Seraphim has his signature frown as he heads to the bed, opening a nightstand and looking through it's contents. Heron stays decidedly silent. If the man doesn't notice him, why would he bring himself to attention?

After what feels like minutes, Seraphim turns around and looks directly at him.

So much for that.

"Did anyone enter this room?"

"Oh yeah, Hera took a mighty stroll all over this place." Heron states sarcastically. The man's expression becomes hilariously shocked, both eyebrows raised to his hairline in disbelief. "I'm not your guard dog." Heron finishes, tone serious.

Maybe this wasn't the best situation to joke around.

Seraphim stands before him, arms crossed, muscles coiled for a fight. Heron should know, he's fought enough people to recognize that split second thinking, the small changes in their pupils as they focus on their target. In this case, Heron was the prey.

"You will answer me." Seraphim was holding back. A bad attempt at an olive branch, considering the situation. Heron wanted to poke the growling lion regardless.

"Or what?"

The man's powerful leg slams into Heron's side, making him keel over. When he makes an attempt to sit up, a foot lands on his back and pushes down harshly. If Heron wasn't so exhausted, so hungry and injured, he would have fought against it. Instead, he lets himself be pushed into the floor.

"Oh." He coughs, his cheek numb against the cold floor. "That."

“Right.” The foot lifts and Seraphim takes a step back. Reluctantly, Heron sits up. His side aches, but he’s had worse. The man was still going easy on him- it made Heron furious.

“I was asleep.” He admits belatedly, avoiding the tyrant’s cruel gaze. He receives an annoyed hum in response, almost a growl. The man turns around again and starts grabbing things from a closet nearby the bed, partially hidden behind a weaved divider.

He returns with a stack of blankets and a cotton pillow, dumping it on the ground with little fanfare. Heron isn't going to thank him.

Seraphim seems to know this, as he doesn't wait for a response when he leaves the room. 

The door shuts, Heron schemes.

-

They enter just before the sun has fully set, a golden haze spills into the bedroom and fills all the cracks. Hides all the fractures in the walls from a recent battle. Makes everything softer.

Heron wasn’t expecting the two gods to come into the room. He was still unsure of who, exactly, followed Seraphim. And who _really_ followed the man. Why would his brother send gods to do basic work?

Dionysus has his signature drunken blush, Persephone trailing elegantly behind him in contrast. Incredibly serene despite the sudden change in rule. She’s carrying a tray of items and tools, clay and silver pots which smell like an assortment of florals. Dionysus was carrying a folded set of white cloth, a leather belt placed neatly on top. Without even a nod of acknowledgement, they sit nearby him. 

His neck burns as he tries to get closer to the gods, whether to fight or talk, Heron is still unsure. Nonetheless, Persephone shuffles forward. Close enough to kiss. His hands clench against the bonds as the goddess takes hold of his chin. Inspecting him with a particular patience masked in her gaze. A strange remake of the day before, when Seraphim held his face in place with a painful hold. Her hold was different, fingers merely tipping his chin up. The option of pulling away was there- he was still in control.

“Persephone,” Heron keeps his voice subdued, unsure of what was expected of him. Unsure of who he could trust. “Dionysus.” The man’s unruly eyes land on Heron, intense in their wildness.

"I'm sorry," Her voice is delicate but strong, a depth of understanding in her lilac eyes. "We have to get you ready." Persephone reaches for the tray, taking a brush in hand. The action is practiced, domestic. She dips it into a clay pot and retrieves it, the tip now colored liquid black. It shines brown in the sunlight streaming in from the opulent windows. 

The brush tickles against his skin as she lightly traces the brush under his eyelids. The cool touch gives him goosebumps as he searches her focused eyes for any hidden meaning. A similar, cat-like lining framed her eyes. Persephone doubtless looked better than Heron, she suited it well.

Something dark blistered under her skin. The hand in her lap is trembling. Heron doesn't ask about it.

"You will have to get changed after we leave, understood?" It's an order, but doesn't feel like one from Persephone's lips. Quieter, she admits, "We were supposed to dress you by force if necessary, but I think you'd prefer some privacy." Heron nods his gratitude, glancing down at the white cloth sitting neatly by his side.

The brush paints circles and lines onto Heron's skin, enclosing his limbs and fingers like rings- like bracelets. As a final touch, Persephone draws a straight black line from his forehead to his chin, crossing straight down his right eye. _Like Seraphim,_ his mind supplies. Why would the man want Heron to carry a mark similar to his own? Wouldn't he want to highlight their differences?

"What does he want from me?" Heron asks, an unwanted undertone of fear tilting his voice up. The gods share a look but don't respond. It does nothing for his nerves.

She puts the brush down and shuffles to the side while Dionysus takes her place. He looked a little worse for wear, unnaturally sober. Heron didn't know the God could even be sober. The purple satin shifts noisily in the silence as the man dips his finger in an other clay pot and places the digit on Heron's lips. 

Heron pulls back, disgruntled. He licks his lips to get the substance off- it tastes bitter. _Wine?_

The damage is already done, however. Persephone shows his reflection in a petite hand-held mirror, Heron's frowning only increasing as he takes everything in. He looked overtly feminine; his more effeminate features highlighted with creams and scarlets. He looks like his mother and the resemblance makes him weary. But the eyes, the eyes remained the same. That part of him he couldn't seem to get rid of. That told everyone he was _different,_ and not in a good way. He averts his eyes and she lowers the mirror to her lap. It shakes in her hold.

Heron wants to reach for his face and wipe it off, but his hands are useless in their chains. It irks him. His whole life he's been laughed at for his long lashes, his doe-like eyes, the sweetness of his smile. To highlight these things wasn't Heron's objective- he wanted to fight and be feared. Looking like this would doubtless get him unwanted attention. _Was this Seraphim's plan?_

His throat clogs with the need to ask for something, anything. He knows Persephone and Dionysus probably weren't allowed to help him- but he ached for it. He needed to know how the others were, if his friends were still alive. Wanted to know if there was some sort of rebellion against Seraphim's rule.

Instead, he stays quiet and watches the two stand up hesitantly, Persephone has a hand on the god's shoulder as they walk to the door, a soothing gesture. With her hand on the handle, she pauses.

"Whatever he offers you, decline." The phrase is tinged with that particular sweet taste of nightshade berries; angelic but lethal. A gentle hint of the syrupy death that followed. Completely unexpected from someone who was so tender with him just seconds ago. Heron would heed the warning.

The double doors close with a soft, now familiar, thud. Heron doesn't scream; doesn't cry. 

He holds onto the rage tightly coiled in his shoulders and waits.


	2. Chapter 2

He get's his answer later; almost dozing off as the sun fully sets, his head leaning back against the wall in what would doubtlessly cause a crick in his neck when he wakes up later. Heron doesn't jolt awake this time, peeking an eye open to see who enters the room. 

Two demons, both male, approach him. Heron straightens up as they start tugging on his chains- _now?_ He ponders the effectiveness of making a run for it. He'd have to fight the two demons off, with no weapons, and somehow escape Olympus on a winged creature from the stables.

The stables; which were located, quite usefully, at the very bottom of Olympus. The farthest point from his current location. _Just grand._

The sound of shuffling metal jerks him out of his thoughts, feeling the hold on his hands loosen- not by much, but enough to reopen the wounds pressed shut by the gold. He curses under his breath from the pain, focusing instead on his mediocre plan. 

Before he can even lift his head, he's kicked in the side. Right where Seraphim kicked him just a little while ago, _how thoughtful of them_. This time he curses audibly as he's brought to the floor, another foot digging into his shin. They switch his handcuffs to the front while he's down, a knee pressed onto his shoulder to make sure he _stays_ down.

Just like that, he's dragged out of the room. The two guards at the door give him joyful grins, jeering at his half stumbling half falling form as he tries to keep up with the fast pace of the two demons locked in closely by his sides. Heron bristles, but what is he to do?

He blinks quickly to adjust his eyesight at the blinding light of the throne room. He's lauded towards the throne to his silent protests, dragging his feet to make it harder for the demonic humans.

When he sees, he almost wishes he'd kept his eyes shut. Chandeliers lined with jewels, colorful extravagant cloths draped over tables and seats and sparkling trays filled with all sorts of snacks sparkle across the grand room. A stark difference to Zeus's moderately decorated bedroom. His stomach growls at the smell wafting past him as he's dragged ever onwards. The throne room used to be minimal, all marble and stone. It wasn't a place for parties- or, whatever this was. Seraphim clearly did some renovating. Besides the sudden abundance of furniture, the almost boasting, bragging display of wealth and prosperity; the room was also filled with people, gods and mortals alike. 

The sounds of them chatting and gossiping, of light uncomfortable laughter and worried tones as they glanced around the room, clearly as distressed with the sudden changes as Heron. This was _their home_ ; it must be painful. Heron feels oddly responsible, and he strains his ears to hear what was being said. The influx of color and sounds hacked at his drowsy mind- still recovering from his second-rate nap. Mixed with the painful ache in his stomach, Heron chokes back the bile racing up his throat.

Fortunately, perhaps unfortunately, the room goes silent at his entrance. Heron avoids eye contact. He failed them. He feels the weight of their gazes on his back, assessing his position in Olympus; the level of threat associated to him. No doubt wondering what Seraphim wanted with him. Heron had the same question. 

He's brought to a stop at the foot of the throne, a maroon pillow placed neatly besides it. The demons plop him down on the pillow. He feels like a dog. 

A disobedient one, based on the chain tying him to the foot of the throne. 

As soon as the demons leave, Heron pulls tentatively on his restraints, testing their hold. His demigod strength fails him as he strains to create a peep from the throne, not even shifting the seat a centimeter forward. _Great._

Heron's cheeks heat up at the spotlight trained on him by being so close to the throne. He was dressed in slave clothing; simple white briefs and a white tunic. Usually, he didn't care for fashion and disliked people who flaunted their wealth with gold and silk- however, he currently sticked out like a sore thumb. Everyone was dressed to the nines, even Seraphim's demonic soldiers wore some form of celebratory uniform. Heron must look so feeble with his basic clothing and strange, strange makeup. 

The last time he felt so embarrassed was when the town boys sent him crying to his mother. How naive he was. How ungrateful. 

The memory of Electra keeps him in the moment; he keeps his expression steady as his heart palpitates. Worries if they could hear the stressed pounding of his body. Smell the sweat starting to curve across his arms. Notice his mortality. 

_Seraphim probably could._

Avoiding eye contact, looking furiously somewhere in the distance, he hears the people start to talk again. A strange collection of high, childish voices and the more dark, regal tones of older gods wash over him as he takes everything in. There was some sort of celebration, mortal maids and butlers dashing around with trays in their hands while the goddesses huddle up together and send worried glances to each other. Most have a partner or two clinging to their arms for comfort. Heron almost wishes he could join them- almost. But what would he say? Would they still treat him as one of them? Somehow not knowing was more comforting than stark rejection. 

Not all the gods are present, however. Athena and Artemis are nowhere to be found, and Hera was presumedly dead. The power vacuum no doubt brought uncertainty- some remaining loyal, demanding she wasn't truly dead, for how can a God _die?_ Others sent covert messages to each other, little gestures and winks, paper notes and gifts being spread around by sleight of hand. 

Heron searched the room for his half brothers but couldn't see them in the mass of people. He hoped they were alright. Hoped they weren't _dead._

His morbid train of thought is distracted by Seraphim entering the room. If he wasn't surrounded by his followers he would have laughed at the ridiculously staged entrance. 

The soldiers and demons kneel as he strolls in, his powerful stature not hindered by the expensive white linen draped over his shoulders in layers. The cloth is lined with dark red, similar to the color of his corrupted eyes. His hair is half up in a ponytail while the rest of his white locks rest on his shoulders. There are small braids interwoven with black beads placed sparingly- a sharp contrast to the color of his hair. Collected, proud. He looks like a ruler. He looks like a monster. 

And he's looking right at Heron, a self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. Unintentionally, Heron's frown deepens- only making Seraphim more elated at the sight of his displeasure. 

Seraphim sits down and rests his right foot on his left knee, casual yet powerful. Seraphim glances at the crowd and nods, releasing them from the unspoken hold he placed them in. Heron wonders how long he was actually out, based on the people's easy respect for the tyrant's control. 

They go back to their conversations while others head to the throne with determined steps. Ares heads closer, sending Heron a sneer when they make eye contact. He's dressed in his usual outfit of grey and black and brutality, an assortment of weapons attached to belts wrapped all around his body. A little overkill, if you asked Heron, but he wasn't a god for no reason. 

"God of war," Seraphim speaks first, claiming the upper hand. 

"God of... I seem to have forgotten, actually." Despite Heron's dislike of the man, he can't hold back a grin at his directness. People turn around and others falter in their steps as they watch the ordeal. Tension crackles in between the two, and Heron isn't the only one who's noticed. Soldiers reach for their weapons, gods sigh in annoyance. 

Seraphim doesn't flinch- in fact, his body turns solid, pretending the words don't affect him. He glowers so strongly at Ares, Heron can feel the heat radiating from the throne. He's felt it before, directed at himself. A fisted challenge, deadly repercussions. 

_Not something you wanted to do with the god of war, dumbass._

"How unfortunate," Seraphim's voice drips with sarcasm. "I will book you in with a doctor I know well; he's awfully kind to the elderly and their many memory issues." Ares scoffs at the comment- Heron can feel a fight rumbling to release from their staring contest. Was Olympus shaking or was that his own heart? He'd be caught in the crossfire and probably die too, in the current state he was in. Did he really want to die while chained over some stupid scuffle, a fight over pride? 

"Do you have any news of Zeus?" Heron asks quickly, changing the subject. Ares switches his glare from Seraphim to Heron, about to answer when Seraphim intervenes. 

The tyrant tugs at his chains and Heron makes an embarrassing yelp which is promptly cut off by lack of air. Heron grapples with his collar, trying to create space between the metal and his throat. It's a fruitless endeavor; Seraphim is the one holding the leash. _And he's enjoying it too,_ Heron notices in sick realization. A glint in Seraphim's eyes, a dangerously eager smile. He's gasping for air when the man finally releases him. Heron collapses to his elbows as he drinks in oxygen, noticing the sewing pattern on the cushion is threaded with gold. 

"You don't bark unless I give you permission to, puppy." Heron hates him. He hates him so much. As soon as he's free, he'll show him _animal_. His fists clench together and he uses the sharp pain from his wrists to calm himself down. He cannot lose control, not in front of the others. 

Ares lifts a brow, seemingly impressed or disgusted. 

"Can you keep your bedroom shit _in_ the bedroom?" Ares asks, a tinge disturbed. Seraphim laughs loudly, not even bothering to correct the man. 

Heron grinds his teeth and lifts himself back up to a seated position, feeling out of breath already. Out of energy to deal with Seraphim, honestly. 

Sadly, the man isn't done with him. He tugs the chain again, this time pulling Heron towards him. He's nearly forced to crawl as he's dragged closer, hands searching for some sort of surface before his face kisses the ground. Heron, embarrassingly, grips onto Seraphim's thighs. 

_Exactly what the 'king' wanted._

As soon as the man releases his hold of the chains, Heron pushes himself off. Or, at least, he tries to. In what seems like milliseconds, Seraphim grips onto his hair with a single hand, twisting and tugging him till Heron stills right in-between the man's legs, facing the wide audience. 

_Oh gods._

"I," Heron can't see the man, but he can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Can do whatever I want." Seraphim finishes. The tyrant loosens his hold minutely, lightly patting his head and even scratching behind his ear. _Seriously?!_ The man offers some form of vindictive comfort as he's displayed in front of the people he wished would respect him one day, in some other life Heron was unfamiliar with now. Not only did Seraphim just further state he was getting it on with his brother, (this is _sick_ ), he also highlighted how debilitated Heron currently was. Shaking any hope the loyalists still had in the prophesied hero, the son of Zeus. 

Ares walks back into the crowd with a frown, not bothering to ask whatever he had prepared. Heron wishes he could follow him. 

Whatever Seraphim was doing, it would only work against him. Heron was sure of it. 

He couldn't actually think people would accept him flirting with his brother? Then again, it wasn't that uncommon, based on the people currently in the room. Plus, Seraphim didn't need their acceptance. In fact, maybe he wanted them to despise him. Perhaps it was merely a joke, just a skit to emphasize his complete control. 

Whatever it was, things were not looking good for Heron. 

After what felt like two hours, he senses the event coming to a close. Nothing exciting had happened, not after the whole fiasco with Ares. The god of war steered clear from the dais; Heron thanked the stars. Seraphim was giving some sort of consultation for all their concerns (mainly, what his plans were with the Titans, and _where_ the sacred box was, for safekeeping purposes of course.) Some came with compliments, some with critizism blanketed in compliments. Overall, they were testing the waters. Seraphim did a surprisingly good job at controlling them, using his sharp tongue and large stature as intimidation. That, and the knowledge of where the sought after titan box was, of course. 

_The only thing keeping him in power._

Heron blinks as the man stands up, moderately confused. He wasn't _actually_ about to fall asleep, his head resting on the seat as hands carded gently through his hair, scratching over his scalp- feeling the calmest he's felt in a while, despite the situation. Okay, maybe he was on the verge of passing out. But who could blame him? He was exhausted- the hunger had transformed to a comfortable numbness. His whole body felt comfortably numb with hands stroking his head like his mother used to do after she removed a splinter. It was unfair- Seraphim had no right to be touching him at all. The familiar rage stiffens his muscles back to place. 

Seraphim steps over him like a piece of furniture, clapping his hands together once and waiting for the people to go silent. Heron was secretly urging them to carry on, to ignore the tyrant completely. Watch as the man's lips press together, the vein in his neck popping out like a target- instead, they actually listen. 

"I will continue to answer your questions tomorrow, but I notice some people are getting a little tired," He pointedly looks behind him at Heron's figure draped over the dais like some sort of incubus. Heron straightens further and sharpens his expression. Winces at the sound of his chains echoing in the hushed room. He wasn't tired. "And so, I am afraid I must retire to my quarters." 

Yeah right, he was just using Heron as an excuse. Seraphim looked bored out of his mind, something Heron had never seen before from the man. Clearly, fighting was his forte. Heron couldn't blame him. 

Without further ado, Seraphim walks out the throne room; looking no different to when he first entered, other than the slightly downturned lips and exasperated eyes. 

Heron releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding at the mans departure. What's more, the two demons were approaching the throne- probably ordered by Seraphim to bring him to Zeus's quarters. He could finally leave the innumerable scorned looks, the ugly pity and the sympathetic smiles. Heron wished they would just ignore him while he was like this- when he was seen as less than human by Seraphim. 

The taller of the two kicks him in his other shin. Small mercies. 

"You know, I really like this look on you." Seraphim continues scribbling onto something on his desk, back towards Heron. The man wasn't even looking at him. He scoffs. What did he like anyways? The copycat makeup? Probably. Heron's learned over time that Seraphim had a bit of an ego problem. 

"Don't talk to me." Heron replies easily, readying himself for another night aimed at destroying his spine, puffing up the few sheets he received earlier as some sort of makeshift bed. 

"Didn't you hear me earlier? I can do whatever I want." How could Heron forget. 

"Sure you can. Doesn't mean you should." Seraphim had this way of bringing out the worst in him. Making him incredibly frustrated with his most simple of statements. Heron usually tended to be the pacifier in his relationships. "They're going to think I'm fucking you!" He remembers Ares's disgusted face- how Seraphim handled it like a joke. He was already stripped of his pride, almost getting familiar with shame. But this? This was too much. Heron was a little surprised at his own brashness- more so, surprised at Seraphim's lack of punishment. 

Puppy, I'll be the one doing the fucking." It's said so nonchalantly that Heron worries a little. Oh my gods. How thick was this guy? 

"You can't say those kinds of things!" He snarls, feeling his cheeks heat up at all the implications of Seraphim's statement. 

"Maybe I should invest in a muzzle." Heron promptly clamps his mouth shut. Keeps it shut as he shifts, trying to find a comfortable position. Seraphim stayed blissfully silent; Heron wasn't sure he could stay silent after another one of his remarks. 

Laying down, staring at the ceiling, his stomach makes it's presence known. Ignored for so long, Heron couldn't stop the gurgles of his hunger. It was embarrassing, but also _not his fault_. Heron repeats the phrase in his mind a few times, but it doesn't really stick. He's been feeling guilty over lots of things, lately. Usually, his mother would comfort him and his restless mind. Hold him as he ruminated over past mistakes, future problems. But she was gone, gone, gone. 

Because Seraphim killed her. His own brother. 

The tyrant, as if hearing his thoughts, stands up and leaves the room without even a glance of acknowledgement. _Right,_ he was insignificant. After a few minutes of looking at the white ceiling, tightly squinting his eyes to form patterns and words on the blank canvas, the door reopens. Footsteps approach his laying form, and he prepares himself for another beating. 

"Get up." Seraphim orders, holding onto a platter filled with all sorts of foods. Heron, despite his better judgement, sits up. His mouth waters at the scent of freshly baked bread, traces the drop of water glistening over a vine of grapes. Reads his captor's body language for any signs of generosity. 

His brother smiles in that way that Heron still doesn't trust, and sits down in front of him, keeping the meal just out of reach. Heron holds back a growl of distress- angry at his own body's betrayal as it fights for nourishment. Seraphim breaks off a single grape and plops it into his own mouth, holding it between his teeth. Bites down as Heron gawks deliriously, watches the juices drip down the man's chin as he slurps the grape down. Opens his own mouth as if he can taste it, as if the scented air held any calories. 

Seraphim lifts another grape, but this time he doesn't bring it to his own mouth. Heron leans forward till the collar nearly chokes him. Unconsciously shifts his legs wider to allow the man access to get closer. Seraphim gently nudges the grape against Heron's mouth, and Heron- unthinkingly- opens his mouth to take it. 

He snaps his jaw shut and leans back quickly, adding distance as he treasures the food in his mouth. Almost chokes as he nearly swallows the grape whole, his body's desperation for anything outweighing his sensibility of actually _chewing_. Just like that, the grape is gone. His teeth clink together in an aborted effort of eating. He shifts forward again for the next grape, and the next. And the next. Seraphim switches to the bread and Heron nearly moans in appreciation. His irritation of Seraphim's manner of feeding him is stunted by his overall need for food. 

He's enjoying the last few grapes when Seraphim takes it a step further. As Heron dutifully opens his mouth for the grape, he's harrased by the man's finger instead. It digs into his cheek, forcing him to keep his mouth open and taste the saltiness of his finger. He coughs and tries to lean back but Seraphim is relentless, using his other hand to hold his chin in place while he shifts his thumb over his lower lip in a caress. Lightly pulling it down as if to inspect his gums. Heron makes a noise of aggravation, tries to make the words exiting his throat make sense. 

"Shtawp," He tries once more before he sees the look in Seraphim's eyes. Adoring, possessive. Focused on his mouth like a life line, like the only water source in the desert, like a man in love. 

Heron bites down as hard as he can till he tastes blood. 

Seraphim draws back sharply, a hiss snarling on his lips. His captor holds his bleeding hand to his chest, a look of mirth on his face. 

_Oh._

The food in his stomach revolts as a knee digs into his stomach, his own head banging against the wall with a sickening crack. Heron heaves as he tries to regain some form of control while an elbow leans against his windpipe. Heron looks desperately, dizzily, at Seraphim until his face is slapped to the side. Breathing in deep breathes and choking them out, his body nearly collapses when Seraphim discards him. 

The tyrant groans in frustration and digs his hands into his hair. A pained expression marks his face. Probably due to his bleeding hand. Heron blinks lazily as he tries to keep his meal in his stomach. He needs it. 

Depending on how long Seraphim wants him alive, that is. Recent events do nothing to calm Heron's panting form. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm using gods as uh plural for gods and goddesses if that makes sense? Idk, in spanish we group people of mixed genders by the 'male' form. Not sure if english works the same? do correct me if i should say gods and goddesses instead! there's not like... a gender neutral form. also in case it's not quite clear, Seraphim is in power due to his possession of the titan box!!! he basically controls the titans which in turn controls the gods. Similarly to Hera's attempted control, this is weak and fragile.
> 
> hope ur having a grand day lovely readers! all ur comments made me do a little happy squeal not gonna lie haha. whatever, im always cool and composed. me? touched? no such thing. dont talk to me.  
> <3 !

**Author's Note:**

> Side note nothing wrong with men wearing makeup (yo, eyeliner on men makes my asexual heart flutter lol, and lipstick looks banger on all genders), in this case Heron is distraught as he has been bullied for being too feminine in the past and he doesn't like how it makes society perceive him.  
> I didn't mean to offend anyone ahh; i didn't know how to make heron look extra pretty without him feeling bad about it, because he doesn't seem concerned with his appearance during the show (lol honey get out those rags! u stinky!) we still love him though.  
> ok this is very long goodbye now, stay tuned and give me kudos to see Apollo in ur upcoming dream. guaranteed. 
> 
> for legal reasons i have to revoke my guarantee but... the intention remains. :)


End file.
